Accidents Happen
by dancingloki
Summary: Four times Steve doesn't know what to do, and one time he does. A kissing fic. Potentially triggering content.


It happens by accident, the first time.

Steve's gotten used to sleeping lightly because he has to wake Bucky up from a nightmare, every night, but this one's different—he woke Bucky up but it didn't seem to matter, it's like the dream didn't stop and he's _screaming_, he's screaming and screaming and Steve doesn't know what to do. He tries to remember the things Sam told him—about calm voices, soothing stimuli, creating safe places, but it's not _helping_, none of it's _helping_, and Bucky _won't stop screaming he won't stop_ and Steve doesn't know what to do, so he kisses him.

He regrets it instantly, it was a stupid, _stupid_ thing to do, but Bucky's body was already rock-hard-tense-strung-tight and there's absolutely no way he could have made things _worse_ and god, god, the screaming's stopped.

Steve tries to pull away but Bucky latches on, supernatural strength holding him tight, broad hands hanging on for dear life to Steve's biceps tight enough to bruise even him—not that the bruises will still be there in the morning. He presses up into Steve's mouth, not even really kissing, just tasting him, his eyes clenched so tight, _so_ tight, that Steve just sits there holding him until the shaking stops and he falls back to sleep on Steve's shoulder.

The second time was in the kitchen.

Bucky breaks a plate.

It isn't a big deal—Steve is trying to _tell_ him that it isn't a big deal, really, Bucky, it doesn't matter, we have lots more, just come away before you cut your feet—but it's not the plate in his hands, it's not the plate his metal arm crushed when he forgot how strong it was and closed his fingers carelessly and Steve can't see it, Steve can't see the mission's arm in his hand and where the bone is jutting out and Steve can't _see_ the blood on his hands, it's all over, it's all over his hands and his arms and his face and why can't Steve _see_ it, why can't he _see_—

Steve gets him to the kitchen table and onto the chair but he's shaking and shaking and his eyes are welling up with tears, whispering, _oh god oh god oh god oh god_ under his breath because there's _so much blood_ and Steve can't see it. And Steve doesn't know what to do, it's like Bucky can't even hear him when he says it's all right, it's _all right_, so he leans up and kisses him gently because hey, it worked last time, and this time Bucky kisses him back and he squeezes his eyes _so tight shut_ and when he opens them, the blood is gone, just broken pottery on the floor.

The third time, Bucky kisses Steve.

He's standing in the living room when he catches a whiff of something drifting in the window. Someone's having a barbecue nearby, and it's just a burger going on the grill, that's all it is, just hamburger, but the smell of burning flesh is _so familiar_ and it hits something inside him. He stumbles blindly across the room into Steve's chest and presses up into him, desperately, desperately, searching into his mouth to find something, anything, to replace the scorched, metallic taste on his tongue. Steve doesn't know what else to do but give it to him.

When he pulls away he tells Steve in a broken voice to shut the damn window.

It doesn't happen again for a long, long time, but after a while, Bucky starts to get stronger. He talks, holds whole conversations. He still flinches at loud noises, but he doesn't either collapse or go into uncontrollable battle mode. And when he sees a jogger trip and fall during one of their walks through Central Park, their knee raw and red, he makes it all the way back to Steve's apartment before he breaks down.

Steve decides he's ready.

Natasha organizes it for him. She understands. It'll be simple, low-pressure, real casual, everybody friendly, everybody nice and easy and welcoming and non-accusatory.

Bucky's still batshit terrified. Steve reads it in the taut lines of his shoulders, the vein pulsing in his neck. He reaches out, grabs Bucky's right hand in his left, and feels the tension run out of Bucky's shoulders at the press of his palm.

Bucky looks up at him. They're standing there in the elevator, just the two of them. It's a strange mix of tired grief and tired hope that Steve sees in his eyes, yet Bucky looks more awake, more alive, more _himself_ than Steve has seen him in weeks.

Steve doesn't know what to do.

He knows what he _wants_ to do, but there's no panic to soothe, no trembling clawing thrashing fear that needs replacing with something else.

Carefully, hesitantly, he leans down, slowly, ever so slowly.

Bucky doesn't pull away.


End file.
